Shoot Kombucha, Kill Light

I lost seven pounds in two weeks from going off my steroid nasal spray. I’ve made no other changes. But now my spring allergies dither relentlessly in my nasal cavity and pharynx. And the spray taunts me from its stoop in the bathroom while I sit on the toilet. Every breath I take, every move[ment] I make. “Just one teeny weeny spritz!” it whispers, its nozzle glistening with old snot. “Just slip it in!”

I’m like a recovering junkie with a dealer relentlessly texting me: “I’ve gotta freebie with your name written on it!” Not that I know what the fuck it feels like to be a recovering junkie. I fear the comparison is inapplicable and insensitive to people facing real challenges, some of whom are my friends, the very peeps who lend me cred by association, whom I exploit regularly through recounting their stories before strangers at dinner parties. [Tip: Always personalize your stories, make them your own, by adding “and Johnny was supposed to see me that night…” before gassing on about how Johnny lost an arm or woke up naked, covered in vaseline, in a broom closet at the Whitestone Motor Inn].

But back to my nasal spray temptation… To find an applicable comparison from my own experience that will deliver the same impact, this is the task… hmmm… We’ll have to settle for “I’m like what I felt for three minutes during a scene on Breaking Bad, when an actor performed the role of a recovering junkie who starts fucking a drug dealer and is tempted to take dope again. I paused the scene to get some cranberry-infused kombucha and soy-roasted almonds from the kitchen but when I returned for the second minute and a half, the gravity of the scene weighed heavily on me, so heavily in fact, that I actually said to my husband, ‘wow, that was really well-written.'”

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